


Wounded

by K1rana



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Angst, Blood, Explicit Language, M/M, Magic, Post-Game, Slash, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:06:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4911808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K1rana/pseuds/K1rana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Game: Back at Garden, Seifer acquires a mysterious injury. And Squall wants to... help? (Rated for language and blood)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Incision

**Author's Note:**

> Forewarning: I really like Seifer. And for some reason, I like hurting him. But it's just so Squall can make him all better. :3
> 
> Also, I remember reading somewhere that, before release, FF8 was originally rated M for language alone. I like to think that was Seifer's fault, and have written him accordingly.

Seifer bowed his head under the spray of the shower, the lukewarm water serving to cool his heated skin. The Training Center was still more jungle than building, and even without his trademark coat the ex-knight had gotten overheated. But he wouldn’t have expected anything less from his first rematch with the SeeD Commander himself.

He’d… well, he’d lost, really; there was no way to excuse Squall’s gleaming blue blade at his throat as he lay prone on the mossy ground. But Seifer blamed that weapon more than his own lack of skill. Sure, Squall’s skills had improved amazingly since the start of the war; he’d gotten valuable experience fighting all types of monsters and enemies from all over the world, instead of fighting the only other gunblade user in Balamb Garden over and over. But he’d also acquired about four other gunblades that were better than the model he started with, and each one better than the one before it. Lionheart was a gorgeous piece of work, and its shots were more powerful than he’d ever considered.

Whereas, for his part, Seifer hadn’t been using the battles he’d fought to further his skills, only to win by whatever means necessary. He’d found a handful of techniques that worked most of the time and stuck to them until they proved unsuccessful on a particular opponent. And his blade… When he’d been released from Ultimecia’s control, Hyperion had been a scuffed up, dull _mess_ of a weapon. He almost hadn’t been sure if he could salvage it, but he had kept working on it, little by little, whatever chance he got. The first thing Squall had said to him upon his re-admission to Garden was to challenge him to a duel, and Seifer had been forced to stall him until his blade was in presentable condition. Today had been that day, and Seifer was ashamed at how poorly he’d performed. He _had_ to get better.

Smirking darkly to himself as he rinsed his hair, Seifer noted how the tables had turned. Now _he_ would need to train under _Squall_ , only about eight short months after the opposite had been the case. But the tables weren’t just turned, they were more like flipped over. Squall was the mighty hero who’d saved the world, and Seifer was the hated villain who’d come crawling back home with his tail between his legs. His face twisted into a scowl, and he rubbed the soap over his lightly tanned skin a little harder than was necessary.

Officially, they’d had to recognize that Seifer had been under Ultimecia’s mind control, and none of his actions were really his own fault. Officially, he’d been let off with no punishment. In reality, however, nearly everyone in the world knew his name and his face, and hated them both with the fervor only angry mobs could manage. His trial had been one of the first worldwide television and radio broadcasts made since Adel was finally defeated. So not only had Seifer been forced to relive every grueling detail of his actions—now without the numbing effects of Ultimecia’s magic—but the entire world had also been witness. They all knew about the missiles launched at Trabia and Balamb, about the battle between Galbadia and Balamb Gardens; and for the first time, Seifer had learned the exact number of children and teenagers that he’d killed.

Turning the water to just slightly hotter than his tolerance, he placed both palms against the wall and hung his head between his outstretched arms. He closed his eyes as the water ran over his pained face. Even just walking around in Balamb town, he’d gotten a host of different reactions—all bad, of course. People had crossed the street to avoid passing him, or ducked into the nearest shop to escape his presence. More vocal individuals had actually gasped or cried out when catching sight of him, and particularly brave ones had called him things like “murderer” or “monster.” His reception back into Balamb Garden had been equally disturbing. In Garden, instead of bystanders simply being outraged or terrified, now they were _armed_ and outraged or terrified. Over the past six months since he’d returned, he’d been challenged to more fights than he could remember, and that was when they bothered coming at him from the _front_. In addition to having his gunblade on him at all times, he also carried three knives and—when he was ever permitted to leave Garden—a concealed handgun. Even right now, in the Training Center communal showers, his smallest knife was within the folds of his towel, on the bench to his left.

He was never safe, never at ease. And neither was the Garden staff—all the instructors and staff members were keeping a watch on him at all times, supposedly for both his own safety as well as others, but there’d already been one “altercation” between Seifer and a few older cadets that had been conveniently “overlooked.” He was lucky no one was able to cast magic on him, or he’d probably already be dead. As it was, anyone who wanted to try and get revenge for something or another that the ex-knight had done was forced to try and physically overpower him, and Seifer was making that more difficult for them every day.

Seifer balled his right hand into a fist and pushed it into the white tiled wall in front of him. Deep down, in the darkness of the back of his mind, he knew he deserved everything he got. Why the hell _shouldn_ _’t_ he be hounded at every turn, attacked from behind whenever he let his guard down, and have his every meal poisoned? Why the hell was he even _alive_ , after what he’d done? Being under a sorceress’s control was no excuse—he remembered every moment of the war, felt every drop of blood on his hands.

_Pain_ —sudden, burning pain shot through his body, arcing from the base of his neck down the front of his torso. Seifer grunted lowly and pressed a hand instinctively to his chest, and felt an unnatural split. He moved his head out of the water and opened his eyes to examine himself.

“Aah, what the _hell_?!” There was a huge gash, open and bleeding, diagonally across the center of his chest. Bright red blood—too much blood—washed down his body with the water and swirled into the drain at his feet. He simply gaped at the sight, frozen in shock.

It was a clean cut, as though from a sharp knife, and deep. ‘ _How did this happen_?!’ He _knew_ he was alone in the shower room, and a glance over to his towel showed it to be undisturbed. The room started to tilt slightly as he turned his head back to stare at the wound.

“What’s wrong?!” Squall exclaimed, having been summoned into the room by Seifer’s cry. The blond turned around with wide eyes to see him standing in the doorway, a towel around his waist and his pale body in a ready stance. Ice-blue eyes went wide at the sight of the bloody wound, and he instantly checked the room for a possible assailant.

Seifer shook his head slowly, feeling a chill despite the steamy room. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. “I don’t know…”

As the room tilted dramatically and started to dim, Seifer distantly wondered how Squall had suddenly gotten so close, and how in the world he was taller than him…


	2. Tearing the Stitches

“Ugh.” Seifer’s first reaction to the blinding white light was to lift an arm to cover his eyes, and he noted with additional displeasure how that action took a bit more effort than usual. With another groan, he realized he was still naked under crisp, stiff sheets. That combined with the distinct smell of antiseptic in the cool air told him he was in the Infirmary.

“Seifer, are you awake?” he heard Dr. Kadowaki’s voice from a distance, and her clipping footsteps as she approached. “Ah, how are you feeling?”

He peeked at her with one partially-covered eye, and allowed his eyes to slowly adjust to the light. “Tired,” he croaked out. “Head hurts. What the hell happened?”

“Commander Leonhart brought you here last night, claiming you’d been wounded somehow.” The stocky doctor shook her head, almost shrugging. “But the cut on your chest that he mentioned disappeared after you lost consciousness. But you should still rest; you’ve lost plenty of blood. I’ll have some food brought over for you from the Cafeteria to help you get your strength back.” Offhandedly, she added, “It’s a good thing it healed itself, though; we still haven’t figured out why spells don’t work on you anymore.”

He grunted again in response, and as the doctor moved to her desk, he slowly laid his arm back down at his side, keeping his eyes closed against the persistent light. When he finally managed to open them to a squint, he first checked around his bed for his weapons and clothing. Fortunately, they were all right beside the bed in a plain blue chair, but unfortunately not within his easy reach. He was in the process of trying to gingerly scoot himself over far enough to reach his gunblade when the doctor returned, tutting at him for his excessive movement.

“Here,” she conceded brusquely, handing him his dagger. She’d treated him enough times since his return to know the reason for his discomfort. “And this,” she offered more gently, the latest issue of Weapons Monthly held out before her. Seifer accepted it with a small grin. “Someone will be by later with lunch for you, as it’s only about ten right now. Just rest up until then.” Seifer nodded his agreement and she moved away again, closing the thin door behind her to maintain his privacy. He hid the blade under the covers, alongside his right thigh, immediately feeling a measure of comfort with its presence.

To kill time, he actually ended up slogging through the entire magazine, instead of just flipping straight to the gunblades and then tossing it aside. The new pistol-style gunblade model was certainly a beauty, but after all the TLC he’d put into Hyperion, he just wasn’t ready to part with her. Of course, Leonhart still kept his Revolver around, but it was really more as a relic and Seifer didn’t want to relegate his first and only blade to memento status just yet.

After he’d finished reading, he lifted himself from the bed and sluggishly dressed in the navy pants and white sleeveless athletic shirt he’d worn the day before. He was lacing up his steel-toed boots when he heard the courier arrive with his lunch. Kadowaki accepted the tray personally, and ensured the messenger had departed before entering Seifer’s room. He silently thanked and blessed her as he overheard the exchange; she made things too easy for him.

He ate in the chair, feeling more like a human than a science experiment, now that he was dressed and sitting up instead of lying naked in a hospital bed. A flash of embarrassment came over him as he wondered just _how_ Squall had carried him here… The hour had been late enough that it might not have mattered, but all the same, he hoped the brunet had at least thrown a towel over him. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of, but it was better to leave at least _something_ to the imagination.

The good doctor returned as he was finishing up his meal. “You’ve been excused from all your classes today. Let me know if you need more time. And your permission to take the field exam prerequisite tomorrow has been revoked. You can take it any time before the exam next week, whenever you’re feeling better. My recommendation is that you spend the night here, but I understand if you’d rather sleep in your own bed,” she told him matter-of-factly. Despite the sinking disappointment in his chest at not being able to get into the field just yet, the blond nodded, and she held out a small pill bottle. “Be sure to take these iron supplements for the next few days, and of course come straight back here if, for some reason, this happens again.”

Standing, Seifer pocketed the bottle and armed himself to leave. All three of his newly acquired blades were forged from the same black metal as Hyperion. First, the smallest knife—about three inches—in its sheath went in his left boot, then the dagger sheath was strapped to his right thigh, followed by the second knife—five inches long—sheathed lengthwise into the back of his belt. And last, of course, was Hyperion, dancing on his hip with every step.

He straightened his back and lifted his chin, leaving the Infirmary with sincere thanks to the doctor and looking for all the world as proud as he was before the war. Only now his eyes were just a bit more hollow, his stance just a bit more dangerous, like a dog that had run away from home for too long and gone slightly feral.

He managed to make it to his room with only a handful of vicious glares, and slumped against his door once he was inside. Even just that short walk was exhausting. He hated feeling weak like this.

He removed the knife at his back and flopped onto his unmade bed, staring at the ceiling in contemplation. That cut… it had just “disappeared” when he blacked out? It didn’t make any sense. First of all, there had been no one else in the room, and it certainly wasn’t self-inflicted. His blade hadn’t even been touched. The way it just closed up on its own indicated magic of some sort, but ever since he’d gotten out of Time Compression, spells hadn’t worked on him, healing or otherwise. And he himself hadn’t been junctioned in as much time, one mandate from Garden that he was more than happy to follow. So what else could it possibly have been?

His thoughts swirled around in his head, just going in circles and making no progress, until he drifted off into a short nap.

 

* * *

 

After an impossibly long and boring afternoon of lying in bed (this time while studying his course work), napping intermittently, and only leaving his room to eat, Seifer was thoroughly finished with this “recovering” business. Late that evening, he decided to make an excursion, as much to test his stamina as it was to perhaps find some answers as to what happened. He made his way to the Training Center, making sure to keep his pace normal, and found with some satisfaction that he was only vaguely tired once he arrived.

Entering the men’s locker room, he found it and the adjoining shower room empty, so he had no qualms about stepping into the tiled room completely clothed. He approached the shower he’d been using at the time, keeping his senses sharp for anything out of the ordinary. He admitted to himself that the chances of the incident being due to some mechanical malfunction of the shower were slim at best, but the possibility still needed to be ruled out.

He checked the showerhead first, turning it to various angles and checking the construction of the device for any faults or weak spots. When there was, of course, nothing unusual, he moved on to the chrome handle set in the wall just below his chest level. No loose pieces or anything out of the ordinary. He checked the drain next, surprised for a brief moment not to find his own blood still swirling around it. But of course, ‘ _You idiot,_ _’_ what wasn’t washed down right away would have been cleaned up by now. The custodial staff of Balamb Garden was, blessedly, quite efficient at removing blood stains in particular.

When nothing about the shower proved to be atypical, not the tiles he’d been leaning against nor the temperature of the water, Seifer finally walked away unsatisfied. It had been too much to ask for an easy resolution to this problem. Now, the most he could hope for was that it didn’t happen again, or if it did, that the cause clearly and obviously presented itself. He shrugged it off and headed to the exit of the Training Center, deciding not to try his luck with any monsters just yet.

The automatic door opened just a bit too early, however, and Seifer was brought face-to-face with the SeeD Commander once again. He wrestled his surprised expression into serious-but-casual-but-not-too-flippant and nodded a greeting to the steely brunet. Squall quickly gave him a once-over glance and put a hand on his hip inquisitively.

“Are you already training again? Dr. Kadowaki said you needed rest.” Squall’s tone was typically matter-of-fact, if a little skeptical, and Seifer honestly couldn’t tell if the Commander gave a shit or not.

He spoke without much thought, waving a hand dismissively. “Nah, it was nothing. I’m already good as new.” He realized only after the words had left him that he might have screwed himself; if the Lion of Balamb were to challenge him to another duel right then, he was certain he wouldn’t be able to hold his own. He made to move around the brunet, adding as casually as he could: “Well, I gotta head back and get some shut-eye; got class bright and early tomorrow.”

Squall stopped him dead in his tracks without moving a muscle. “You’re not doing the prerequisite mission tomorrow?” he asked evenly, his tone belying nothing of his intent or feelings.

Seifer held back a grimace and turned to Squall, who he realized was watching him like a hawk, his eyes burning with frozen fire. He really had to watch his words more carefully around this guy, he admonished himself; it wasn’t so easy to dismiss the younger man when he practically held Seifer’s fate in his hands. Of course—he’d signed the forms to let all the cadets take their prerequisites and exams, and Seifer was a special case. There was always a big to-do about letting him out of Garden. Of _course_ Squall would have been notified.

The ex-knight’s ego once again doomed him; he couldn’t simply admit his weakness to his former rival, not after he’d played it so cool just a moment ago. “Nah, I’m just gonna reschedule it,” he answered with forced ease, shaking his head a bit. A tiny fire of worry lit up in the back of his mind—if Kadowaki had withdrawn his permission to take the prereq, wouldn’t Squall know something like that? Was he trying to catch Seifer in a lie? Or was he still expected to go tomorrow, and be prohibited from taking the field exam if he didn’t show? He made a mental note to verify the latter with his instructor first thing in the morning. The former, well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

The stoic brunet didn’t seem to have anything else to say, instead looking away from Seifer and furrowing his brows in thought. Seifer took that as his opportunity to escape, and started walking away again at a leisurely pace. “Later, Squall,” he tossed over his shoulder, knowing he wouldn’t be scolded for his informal treatment of the Commander. He’d gathered from their previous encounter that Squall much preferred to be just another face in the crowd, especially among those who’d known him before and during the war. And the SeeD Commander wasn’t _technically_ Seifer’s boss until he made SeeD; until then, he reported to the Headmistress, the charismatic and loving Xu.

Besides, he thought to himself as he returned to his dorm with a watchful eye, even if he was working with borrowed time here at Garden, he wasn’t about to change who he was and start groveling and kissing ass. _That_ wasn’t the kind of SeeD he wanted to be, and if that was what it took, then he wouldn’t hesitate to go elsewhere.

He went to sleep feeling haughty and self-righteous.

And woke up in pain.

“Aagh!” Seifer was wrenched from his quickly forgotten dreams by searing pain in his chest. In the dim moonlight, he quickly looked down, wide-eyed, to discover the same long slash across his naked chest, weeping thick red blood onto his white sheets. Hissing out a curse, he sat up and gathered the already stained cloth in his hands, pushing it against his wound with as much force as he could muster. His first instinct was to check his dark and silent room for an assailant, but of course his search turned up empty. This was clearly the exact same mystery cut as last time.

He leaned back against his headboard and shut his eyes while considering his options. He probably wouldn’t make it to the Infirmary on his own, not that he relished the idea of traipsing through Garden in his pajamas while hugging his bedsheets anyway. He could try contacting Dr. Kadowaki on the newly-installed room phone, which was probably his best option, but he’d have to look up her contact information first. But it wasn’t likely that she’d be in her office at this hour—a glance at the glowing green numbers of his bedside clock told him it was 3:45 am—and even if he did manage to contact her, what was she going to do? Wheel him out of his room on a stretcher, for the whole Garden to see, just so he could sleep it off again in the Infirmary?

He grit his teeth and pushed the pain to the back of his mind—and oddly enough, he felt it actually recede. He frowned in confusion and gently pulled the covers back, frowning even deeper when he found, amongst all the blood drying on his chest and sheet, no wound. Not even a scar, no indication that he’d been potentially bleeding to death just seconds ago.

“What the _hell_?” He growled, and balled up the ruined fabric, attempting to toss it into the trash can some distance away. It instead hit the side of the can and knocked it over, spilling its contents onto the floor. With a defeated sigh, he slid his body back down flat on the mattress, and decided that _fine_ , he’d simply sleep just like that, with no covers.

When he woke again to his alarm just a few hours later, shivering, he regretted it.


	3. Trauma

 

The morning of the field exam the following week, Seifer was finally feeling like himself again. He put on the stiff cadet uniform—obviously, he didn’t give a damn about the “decorum” of the exam, but one of the stipulations of his return had been that he was required to be in uniform whenever he was permitted to leave Garden, mostly so someone might hesitate a moment before trying to kill him on sight.

Their mission, blunt though it was, was to decrease the surplus Blue Dragon population that was hindering the Trabia Garden reconstruction process. Overnight travel in the cramped quarters of the Garden sub-boat had left Seifer more acquainted with his squadmates and SeeD chaperones than he would have liked.

Now more than ever, Seifer tended to base his opinion of someone on how they handled him. If they were hostile, he’d give whatever he got; if they were rude or uncomfortable, they were usually waiting for an opportunity to stab him in the back; and if they were neutral, then he could work with them. But he wouldn’t tolerate anyone pitying him or trying to ingratiate themselves to him.

When all the ships went aground at Trabia, Seifer was called aside by none other than Head Instructor Quistis Trepe, who rushed over holding out an old metal oil lamp. She presented it to him as though this were a big deal.

“Your GF, Seifer. This is Diablos,” she hurriedly explained when he gave her a quizzical look. ‘ _Right, all the other kiddies already have theirs on hand_.’ Seifer held up a gloved hand to refuse, but Quistis pushed the lamp into it. “Just junction it, Seifer,” she ordered exasperatedly. “You can’t possibly succeed at this without a GF. You can put aside whatever reservations you have about magic for the sake of the exam.”

“I’ll take it, Instructor, but I’m not gonna junction. It’s just not necessary.” For the sake of appearances, since others were clearly observing their conversation, he offered a disingenuous salute and, when she returned it (despite clearly wanting to argue further), he took his leave of her and caught back up with his squad. On the way, he pocketed the bottle, paying no mind to the mystical force inside. No, he’d do this with his own power.

Squad C, of which Seifer had been appointed leader, was assigned to an area practically in the middle of nowhere, but he much preferred that to being anywhere near the devastated Trabia Garden. Once in the field, Kucho, a stocky, black-haired hothead who had already managed to earn Seifer’s distaste, tried to order the party around himself; he was only a few months older than the ex-knight, but his comparable ego hadn’t been tamed during the war like Seifer’s had been. Seifer simply ignored him, and Lira did a surprisingly good job of politely deferring to their actual squad leader. Naturally, Kucho became increasingly frustrated and, on their fourth dragon, started getting sloppy. He barked orders at the two of them and roared with every exaggerated strike of his boring broadsword, and Seifer was forced to watch the other boy’s back as much as his own.

Lira, a cute, goody-goody, little strawberry blonde number with big green eyes, started the battle by casting Triple on herself, and proceeded to cast supporting magic on the three of them. Seifer grit his teeth as a Protect did absolutely nothing to him, and when she followed it with an equally ineffective Shell, he barked an order of his own to her: “Stop wasting your spells on me! They don’t work!”

After a surprised cry, Lira nodded and spent her next few spells only on herself and their short companion, following them up with offensive magic aimed at the dragon.

When she managed to immobilize  the beast’s head with a Blizzard, Seifer leapt up on the jagged pillar of ice and, emptying his clip, plunged his blade up through the soft flesh of its throat. With that final blow, the dragon screamed and started to rear back in a death flail. Smirking in satisfaction at having left his mark, he jumped back down—and got caught by a swipe of its huge claws. They pierced his back and left leg, and the powerful scaled arm swept him to the side as though he weighed nothing. As he was thrown into the snow several feet away, the dragon finally slumped over in death.

Seifer lay sprawled on his back, stunned and gasping for breath, then groaning in pain once the sensation finally caught up with him. His shocked squadmates stood over him, Lira looking like she was already at his funeral and Kucho clearly wanting to tell him off for “letting” himself get hit.

“Cura!” Lira’s gentle voice cried out as she raised her staff above her head, but the green and white light simply didn’t reach his body. The girl looked beyond crestfallen upon remembering Seifer’s earlier words.

“Do either of you… have any items?” Seifer ground out, already dreading the answer.

“No, because magic works _better_ ,” the older boy replied, unable to keep the attitude out of his voice even in such a grave situation. As Lira shook her head, Seifer closed his eyes, having unfortunately been proved right.

“You have that GF,” Kucho reminded him, crossing his arms.

He shook his head immediately. “Not an option.”

“Look,” he shot back, and Seifer could tell where this was going, “We’re already about to go over our time limit for the mission. You’ve got the means to heal yourself right there. If you’re not going to do it, then we’re just going to have to _leave_ you here.” Coming from himself, it would have sounded more like a motivational speech than a threat, but Seifer understood the meaning. He met the other’s eyes and spat the blood that was pooling in his mouth. Kucho sneered in return.

The small girl shook her head vigorously. “No! We can’t do that!!” She kneeled down over Seifer, concern written all over her face. “What are your orders, Squad Leader?”

Seifer grinned, albeit darkly, at her show of respect. “Go back,” he croaked. “Tell them… I didn’t make it.”

While Kucho made a dismissive “tch” sound and turned away, Lira gasped. “No, we won’t leave you behind! We’ll go back and get medics! We’ll send the medics for you, okay? Just hang in there!” As she stood to leave, she had a second thought. “I know I can’t cast it on _you_ , but…” She took a small, round, white cat figurine out of her pocket and held it in front of her. “Protect!” she called, conjuring a thin green sphere of light around the trinket, and kneeled to place it in Seifer’s hand. “I hope this works. Just hang on, okay?” When he nodded in response, she and the other boy scurried out of sight.

Time seemed at once to crawl and to fly by as Seifer fought to retain consciousness, lying there in the snow. Death wasn't even an option for him at this point, after all that he’d already survived. He wasn’t going to be done in by a monster he’d already killed, or by hypothermia from lying here on his ass waiting for the cavalry to come rescue him. Telling them to leave him behind was a noble gesture--as it ensured they would complete the mission within the time limit--but it was also a bit of a test. Kucho had failed, as expected, and Lira had passed with flying colors. He assumed the evaluators already knew how the exchange had gone, but he’d be sure to include it in his report anyway, for her sake.

“Seifer?” He heard a voice calling him from seemingly so far away. Fortunately, it was only mildly overcast, and there was no wind or snow, so it seemed the SeeDs would be able to find him after all. He was, of course, right where they left him, so it was just a matter of them getting back to that spot.

“Seifer?!” As the voice got closer, he recognized it as Quistis. Naturally, her sense of responsibility would have her out here looking for him, even if it wasn’t her job to go hunting down wayward cadets.

“Seifer, if you can hear me, please give me a sign!” It sounded like she was veering off to the right. When he tried to call out to her, his voice was nothing but a croak, and he had no other means of signaling. So without thinking, he spat the blood in his mouth straight up in a red spray, the effort causing a lot more exertion than he expected. As he slipped out of consciousness, he heard Quistis approach him, scolding flatly, “Seifer, that was _disgusting_.” He managed a smirk before everything went black.

He woke to the disorienting feeling of movement beneath him, of being carried along as a voice spoke over him. They had him on a stretcher, and four SeeDs were carrying the poles. A gloriously warm, fuzzy blanket was thoroughly covering him, and he dully wondered if they’d let him keep this amazing thing, since he’d bled on it and all. As he opened his eyes to the newly emerged sun, Quistis called out for them all to stop.

“Here, here’s an X-Potion. Drink,” she offered in a way of warning as she immediately placed the cool glass bottle at his lips. He managed to get most of it down with minimal choking, and instantly started to feel better. The large, blood-crusted wounds on his back and leg zipped themselves shut with a spread of warmth, and through that unnerving sensation Seifer’s mind and vision cleared. He blinked hard a few times to get the rest of the fluff out of his brain.

He waved for the SeeDs to put him down, which they did after Quistis’s confirming nod, and he was able to stand with her steadying assistance. She nodded again at her helpers, and they packed up the stretcher, the four of them flanking the pair at all sides. With Seifer’s large arm over Quistis’s thin but powerful frame, they made their slow way back to the ships.

“You need to teach these cadets to start carrying healing items,” Seifer grumbled hoarsely.

Quistis laughed in return. “Speak for yourself,” she countered.

The ex-knight wanted to complain about not being allowed out of Garden to buy supplies, but it really didn’t make a difference; it was his own problem and he was the one who should be prepared to handle it. He wouldn’t make this mistake again.

With a sigh, the instructor sobered. “Why do this to yourself, Seifer? You could have junctioned Diablos and healed yourself then and there.” When Seifer shook his head, she continued. “I know you have issues with magic, but what is it about junctioning yourself? Is it the memory loss? It goes away after you unjunction for a while.” Her tone was insistent, bordering on desperate, and Seifer repressed a sigh at Quisty’s unshakeable motherly instincts for all the orphanage kids.

When she cautiously ventured, “Is it…?” Seifer immediately tensed. But apparently she still didn’t get the message that it wasn’t okay to go there. “Is it something to do with the sorceress…?”

Face twisted with rage, he jerked away from her without a word and half-marched, half-stumbled his way to the front of the group, taking off toward the one remaining ship at a brisk pace. He heard the instructor call his name, just once, but when she didn’t rush to catch up with him he assumed she’d finally taken the hint and backed off.

Everyone, _everyone_ who tried to talk to him about the war always had this tentative air about them, always trying to tiptoe around him like they didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Even Squall, who didn’t pull any punches with anyone, had avoided the topic entirely when they’d spoken. And now _Quistis_ of all people tries to bring it up like she’s some fucking _therapist_ , gonna help him _talk_ all his problems away…

He clenched his gloved fists, hearing the leather squeak with the strain, and stomped through the snow. He never wanted anything to do with magic ever again; how was that so hard to understand? Everyone acted like magic was just par for the course, no big deal, and just went about their days with those _creatures_ sitting in their _brains_ … He shuddered at the thought, at the sudden memory of another voice inside his head with his own, another’s thoughts hissing and screeching and cackling at him as he laid waste to countless innocent lives…

“Aagh!” The splitting pain in his chest made his legs give out, and he dropped with a grunt to his hands and knees. The feeling was almost familiar at this point. ‘ _Not now,_ ’ he begged whatever force was doing this to him. _‘Not in front of Quistis; she’ll ask a million questions… Just let me make it through this damn test already!'_

As expected, the Head Instructor, followed by her four helper SeeDs, quickly caught up with him. Quistis knelt down at his side. “Seifer, what is it??” she asked urgently, placing one hand on his back as her other attempted to lift one of his arms. When he allowed her to turn his torso toward her, she let out a loud gasp at the large, bright red stain on the front of his white undershirt.

She whipped her head up to look for an attacker that Seifer knew wasn’t there. “How…? There’s no one else here! How did this happen?!” She turned back to him, now moving his arm over her shoulders and motioning for another one of the men behind her to take the blond’s other side. Between the two of them, they lifted Seifer into a standing position, though his height advantage left his knees still bent.

With her free hand, she fished out a Potion and had him drink, lifting his shirt to inspect the results once he had finished. The surly ex-Knight growled and tried to pull away from the too-close contact, but between the two trained mercenaries, his weight was no longer his own. He succeeded only in his turning his face away and squinting his eyes shut in embarrassment. He felt Quistis change places with another of the SeeDs, the two taller men now supporting him allowing him to stand closer to his natural height. She kept his shirt up, whispering in worried surprise when the wound didn’t heal.

“What in the world…? Get him back to the ship, now!”

Quistis released his clothing and led the way, and Seifer turned forward again to start walking. His wandering mind took a moment to wonder about these four stoic men who, as far as he knew, hadn’t said a word yet. It only took him a moment to figure out why they were following her so efficiently, and without complaint about their charge—they were _Trepies_. Ugh. He had to hand it to her, though; she certainly knew how to make use of her little fan club. The privilege of her presence in exchange for their complete cooperation and, he imagined, their silence.

And as quickly as it had come, the pain was gone, along with the cut itself. The ex-knight took a deep breath and exhaled a sigh of relief, still allowing the two cult-- _club_ members to escort him up the ramp and lay him down on the bench next to the instructor. One man moved to the helm of the ship to assist the pilot, and the other three sat on the other bench across the length of the gray interior.

Even as the doors shut and they began to move, Quistis knelt on the floor next to him and lifted his shirt again. She let out a gasp upon finding only blood covering smooth, unbroken skin, and gently replaced the shirt, only now considering his privacy.

“How… What was that? What happened?” She asked quietly, every sound seeming too loud in the cramped room.

Seifer only shook his head in response. “I don’t know. I’m just glad it’s gone,” he answered, ending the conversation there. He placed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, making clear his intention not to talk any further, and Quistis acquiesced by silently resuming her seat beside him.

He drifted in and out of sleep throughout the journey home, to the point where his dreams took place inside this same tiny room, and he wasn’t able to untangle dream from reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, I'm so sorry I took such a long time to post this! I actually have a lot of the chapters written already, so even if I take a long time, I'm not going to abandon this story, I promise!
> 
> HUUUGE thank you to Luna Manar for volunteering to beta read for me! Luna's input and insight has been absolutely amazing, and personally I think the resulting increase in quality is pretty obvious! XD


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